Seventeen
by temerity
Summary: Instead of a rendezvous with Jon in the gardens on her sweet seveteenth, Alanna decides to attend a ball with delegates from Tyra...only to discover that she's not the only one with a secret identity.


_(okay, disclaimer first: none of it is mine...second, I think some backstory is in order. Instead of a rendezvous with Jon in the gardens on her sweet seveteenth, Alanna decides to show an unfamiliar face at a ball with delgates from Tyra...only to discover that she's not the only one with a secret identity. Please R &R as always!)_

Alanna, impulsive as ever, ignored the yowls of her constant companion and rummaged around in her trunk.

"Well," she said, surfacing with something elegantly violet draped over her shoulder, "it _is_ my seventeenth birthday, Faithful. I don't see why I shouldn't have at least a _little_ fun!"

"Your fun normally involves something risky," commented the ebony cat with a yawn, "or dangerous. It keeps me up worrying when I could be having a wonderful nap."

"Save that for the Ordeal," she advised, and slipped behind the changing screen to fit herself into something that was completely out of character.

She loved it.

Alanna smoothed the fabric over her thighs—it was a pale, springtime color that complimented her eyes in a way that Mistress Cooper called "striking". There wasn't much, of course, to be done with her hair. She found the wig they'd bought in the marketplace and slipped it on, arranging the black curls just so. Alanna was always surprised at how much time the court ladies spent on their appearance. When she finally surveyed herself in the mirror—lips painted a beguiling shade of rosehip (picked out, yet again, by Mistress Cooper), and eyelashes dipped in a dark makeup that made them look flirtatiously long—the squire found that she would _never_ have be able to stand this much fuss from day-to-day. Even if she hadn't been required to disguise her gender, a grinding schedule of rising before dawn and resting long after dusk made practicality Alanna's first priority.

But this dress, this effort—just for tonight?  
She loved it.

Faithful tangled himself in her skirts just as she was reaching for the doorknob. "Stupid!" he said. "What's your name, anyway?"

Alanna frowned, surprised that she hadn't thought this far ahead.

What else had she forgotten?

"Alianne," she said finally. Close, but not close enough. "I'll be a member of the Tyran delegation. Goddess knows my skin's too tanned for me to be a noblewoman from Tortall, anyway…."

Alanna slapped a hand to her forehead and dashed back to the foot of her bed, opening the trunk. "I almost forgot about the gloves," she said to the cat. "My palms are too rough from Lightning…"

"…they'd suspect something without them," Faithful finished for her, as Alanna pulled on the pair. She let out the deep breath she'd been holding. "I think I'm late enough to be fashionable now," Alanna told him. "Don't lose any sleep; I'll be back by midnight."

"A regular Cinderella," quipped Faithful, and he watched the door close behind his mistress.

"Squire Alan's sick," she heard from a corner of the banquet hall, just as she slipped inside. Alanna peered around—and almost dashed back to her room when she saw Gary and Roaul loitering nearby. Her friends were dressed in all their finery, excused from serving…

…and free to make new acquaintances. Alanna whipped out a delicate fan she really had no idea how to use and brought it up in front of her mouth, trying to look collected and coy as the two strolled over.

Gary had a confident grin slapped on his face, while Raoul stood with his hands stuffed into his pockets, relaxed. Alanna stared at them from behind the safety of the fan before realizing that well-bred court ladies did not usually stand silent while introductions loomed.

She straightened, snapped the fan shut, and willed her brain to remember that she was no longer pretending to own a Y chromosome as the two bowed over her extended hand and murmured their names.

"Lady Alianne," she returned, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. If only they knew what "Alianne" could do with a sword! She managed to fight her way through the small talk—and it was a battle, she realized, trying to keep this façade intact. She'd had much more practice being a gentleman at social soirees (albeit a rather shy, sociophobic gentleman) than she'd ever had at playing the part of a lady. And she was using her normal voice, Alanna realized—not the low one she'd been affecting since the group hit puberty. In fact, Alanna didn't even realize that the "yes" hanging in the air as a response to Gary's request to dance was her own until she felt the words solidify as they left the tip of her tongue, and Gary had already caught her by the hand.

Being disguised as a boy wasn't the only reason Alanna disliked dancing; gender aside, she hated the activity itself. And—Alanna realized with horror—she'd never learned the steps of the lady in her etiquette classes! She curled her lips into something that was more of a grimace than a smile and tried to think faster than the orchestra that was beginning to saw away in the corner.

"Ah," she moaned, and flipped out her fan to wave it around her face. Gary leaned toward her, concerned, but Alanna brushed him off with an apologetic smile. "I feel faint," she declared, feeling every inch like the anti-Squire Alan—and hating herself for it. "May we…?"

"Of course," said Gary, ever the gentleman, and led her back off the floor. _It would be wonderful, _Alanna thought, _if he was this polite when we were wrestling!_ They snagged drinks from a server and his silver-plated tray while Alanna sent a brief prayer—not her first that night, or her last—to the Goddess. She dredged up more small talk for Gary and Raoul; she made up an entire family tree on the spot and confessed that she'd vacationed in the Tortallian countryside last summer.

"The Tyran landscape is beautiful, of course, but one finds the Tortallian summer so refreshing. It gets _so_ hot at home."

Alanna hoped with all of her heart that everything they'd been taught in geography was dead-accurate.

"It is interesting," commented a smooth voice behind her, "that we both hail from the Tyran delegation—and yet, I've never seen you before."

Alanna spun around with her heart in her throat.

_George!_ Alanna wanted to say, but she bit her lip just in time.

_I wish he wouldn't make this so difficult,_ she thought. Alanna pasted a bright, vacant smile on her face and offered him her hand.

"Lady Alianne," she said. "I've just come out to court."

"Lord Geoff," George returned. "I'm delighted."

Without pause, he took her hand and raised his eyebrows. "Shall we dance for the glory of Tyra, my Lady?"

Alanna curtsied to Roaul and Gary the best she knew how, inwardly wishing her mother had survived to teach her the rudimentary skills required for a noblewoman. But then, Alanna reminded herself, she'd never pretended to enjoy being feminine anyway; etiquette remained the only class where a teacher had ever shown himself vexed with the red-haired squire for his lack of attention.

"I hope you know what you're doing!" she hissed, once they were out of earshot. "George, I bowed out of dancing with Gary because I don't know the steps."

"I thought every aspirin' knight learned to dance."

"Yes, every one of us learned the appropriate steps for a _dashing gentleman_ set to woo the ladies on the dance floor!"

George threw her a winning grin.

"Trust me," he said, and held her lightly. When they pivoted at the edge of the crowd (as far from the royal table as possible), Alanna stopped muttering the numbered beats under her breath and found the rhythm. She leaned back to admire George's handiwork. He had painted his skin a few shades darker than usual—and Alanna would have traded Lightning to discover what he'd done to his eyes to change them from his usual green to a deep, warm brown. He was outfitted in rich attire Alanna suspected he'd stolen—but when she opened her mouth to accuse him, George chuckled.

"Bought, fair and square," he said in response to her silent question, and brought her close enough to stall her breath. Alanna shivered.

"Shall the good nobleman and noblewoman from Tyra take a stroll in th' gardens?" he asked, voice rough—and because it felt like a dream, burred and scattered at the edges, Alanna nodded, feeling like was being controlled by some maleficent god. The next thing she knew she was walking at George's side, past a jovial Myles holding a tankard at the door, to the outside world.

"So—Squire Alan enjoys cross dressing, hmm?"

They were in a secluded part of the gardens, accompanied only by the soft song of crickets hidden in the ivy twined around trellises. Alanna fidgeted with the string of pearls wrapped around her neck—and, hidden beneath the lace of her bodice, with the ember given to her by the goddess. "I wanted to try being a girl for one night," she said defensively. "I wanted a challenge—only it got so confusing, with Roaul and Gary acting so strangely—I like them better when I'm a boy."

George leaned against the stone wall surrounding the patio and absentmindedly ran his hand though his hair. Alanna rested against the bark of a nearby tree, feeling the rough against the soft silk of her gown, and savored the silence that blanketed the night—the safety she sensed, standing next to the King of the Rogue.

And then the low _thumpthump_ resonated that was her heart, as George drew a little closer and touched his shadow to hers. Suddenly the night air was too thick—constricting—and Alanna could only close her eyes as George dipped his lips to hers. Perhaps it was the wine—she could taste it mingling on their lips—or the folly of a midsummer's night. Perhaps it was the thing she'd feared all along.

And maybe—maybe she loved it.

Alanna broke away, catching the breath back in her throat. "Happy birthday, lass," George said with a rueful grin. "I couldn't resist being the first to catch you like this; I hope you're not angry with me."

Alanna managed to recover enough to scowl. "You're being just like Gary and Raoul! I swear dresses make men lose their heads. From now on, I'm sticking to breeches!"

George looked after her as the squire—the confused young lady—snatched up her skirts and marched away.

"One day she'll stop pretending," he muttered to himself with a soft smile, and strolled back to the party lighting up the Tortallian night.


End file.
